


City of The Damned

by cement_block



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Alternate Universe, Blood and Gore, Eldritch, Hunters, M/M, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-03
Updated: 2021-02-03
Packaged: 2021-03-14 07:34:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29167365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cement_block/pseuds/cement_block
Summary: After their father's growing concerns about a night of an upcoming hunt, both Mabel and Dipper are sent off to stay with their great uncle in the city of Gravity Falls. Cooped up, the twins are to sit inside until the moon has passed and a new dawn arises. But after a few complications, Dipper is sent out into the foreign streets where he is met with the horrific truth of what lies within the city's walls.
Relationships: Bill Cipher/Dipper Pines
Comments: 1
Kudos: 21





	City of The Damned

**Author's Note:**

> Hi!  
> This story is Bloodbourne inspired!  
> No one has to have played/ watched anything related, but since I'm using certain aspects from the main story there will be references. Most things will be explained throughout the story, so hopefully anything that may seem confusing now will slowly be explained as the story progresses. :)

The carriage that pulls them along jolts every so often with the uneven road, but a steady beam of sunlight cuts through the small gap of the window’s curtain, bringing a sense of peace and relaxation that almost puts Dipper to sleep. It's his sister's consistent mumblings that break the serenity enough to keep him awake. But he cannot help the slow drop of his eyelids as he is rocked like a child to sleep. 

"It's exciting, isn't it? The city is supposed to be a bustling place." 

He rouses slightly from the question, trying to focus his attention towards her.  
She's staring out of the window, casting the light easily along her cheek bone, and highlighting her eyes into an amber glow of a deep, rich honey. 

Sure, there is going to be a lot to discover compared to their small town. He is somewhat excited about the prospect of seeing such a lively place. Being held by the restraints of their parents' control has made the two of them secretly rambunctious. Here they’ll be free to do what they want without the suffocating expectations of keeping up their reputations. Even if their father was far more lenient than their mother. Being a hunter left too many leaking holes in the face of decency. Witnessing death will only dirty a man. 

"Father told me that we have been here before- can you believe? I have no such memories." 

She's looking at him now, eyeing him for a response as he sits quietly, becoming idly distracted with the lace and eloquently tied bow on the front of her bonnet; a consistent trend with her worn outfit. Mabel always knew how to dress appropriately. Perhaps, he should take his mother’s words of dressing into more consideration, maybe then he would feel more confident in himself. It’s a shame that he lost motivation after the many hunting expeditions. No point wearing something of importance if it was going to be ruined. 

He must have taken too long to respond, because she speaks again, 

"He was a hunter, wasn't he? You remember what Father spoke about?" She breaks eye-contact, her voice is somewhat distant as she loses herself, once again, to her own musings. 

Dipper simply watches (no point commenting now that her attention has moved elsewhere) as her eyes flicker with the moving world outside the window, before he gently lowers his head to the open book sitting in his lap, wanting to continue his quiet reading. However, his mind wonders with her now fading words. 

While he only has a foggy reminiscence of such things, he does faintly recall a somewhat abstract memory. One so old that it flows in between the forefront of his mind; a long forgotten tale resurrected by only a singular word.  
He doesn't remember the exact where or why, as he was a young child; one with the innocent desire to explore. He has glimpses of well lit walls of expensive paper, lined with furniture that would have cost more than all of his own cloth combined. 

He had ended up walking into a room; one with it's door slightly ajar. Enough so he could slip in without having to push it as much. 

He remembers being startled by the mass of hunter weaponry that decorated the wall before him. Pure childish fascination, only having seen his father hold such tools. It fueled an instinctual fear, but burned a deep curiosity of wanting to understand, to learn. 

He was so stunned that he didn't flinch at the approaching footsteps. Or when the door opened, and flooded the room with light; igniting the weapons with a yellow, shining reflection. 

They were intoxicated that night (his nose twitches at the memory), that lingering smell of heavy cologne and whisky as the two men had come in. His father cooing at him, idiotically drunk, while his great uncle (who'd he only met that night), simply laughed and took down one of the many throwing knives.

He helped the small blade into his tiny hand as Dipper stood unsure; confused like a startled deer. The weight of his father's hand on his bony shoulder grounded him and stopped him from crying for his mother.  
His father then spoke to his great uncle, 

"He'd make a good hunt'er, wouldn't he- enough fe'ar in 'im, a mouse squeak will make 'im run." 

He remembers their hearty, but slurred laughter; glistening silver in his hand, and the obnoxious chatter from the guests rooms away. 

He's quickly startled from his thoughts when he feels the tip of his sister's boot collide with his shin. He sneers at her, bending over slightly to gently rub at the tender area.

"You're not a very good listener, it's no wonder no women have picked you fancy," Mabel snickers as her hand twitches for the fan placed delicately under her gloved hands. He knew if it were to be opened, she'd be fluttering it. 

Dipper tries not to roll his eyes at her comment, after all, he knew she was right… To some degree, he'd admit. He isn't as fortunate as other men, but surely there'd be some opportunity. He lets his annoyance out with a simple sigh as he shuffles in his seat; book closing as he rightens himself. The sensation of falling asleep now washed away with the desire to defend his pride. 

"And you're a bad talker, no wonder men don't stay for too long." 

Her cheeky grin falls into an unimpressed frown, eyes rolling with a huff of her own.  
Being cooped up for so long has left a need for fresher air between them; their banter becoming more a way to express their agitation to their current position. 

They both end up looking out the window, and he can finally spy the peaks of spiralling towers from the condensed city of Gravity Falls beyond the tree line. 

It has been such a long trip from their small town. After growing concerns about the formidable night before them-- something his father was hesitant to discuss into detail-- it was decided they'd be sent to the city where they were deemed to be more secure, staying with their great uncle-- a retired hunter-- until it was safe for their return.  
There are more hunters in the city after all, and the night of the hunt was soon to fall upon them. So it only made sense for them to hide amongst an army of beast slayers once the mayhem had been set loose after sunset. 

"We're lucky, don't you think?"

She fiddles with her fingers, eyes downcasted with a bittersweet smile lingering on her lips. To then look up suddenly, glancing at the interior of the carriage, as if she's trying not to cry. 

He doesn't blame her for being over emotional. Though he, himself, is content at this moment, the stress of nightfall will soon settle itself down inside of him, and the undying question of who survived this night's hunt will fill the morning air with mourning and celebration. 

"To be allowed in, to hide among a place crowded with protection." 

She's probably thinking about her friends back home, and the small community she seemed to flourish in, regardless of her social status. 

"Do you think Father will be okay?" 

Dipper's heart strains at the question, gut rolling as the carriage stops, and a loud screech of a metal gate opening occupies his sudden panicking mind. He's struggling for an answer that won't make her anymore depressed for the night. Though their father is a proud and well profound hunter, both men knew that tonight was going to be left for fate to decide. 

There was something different in the air when he spoke to his father. Something that told him that this hunt was going to be permeating a sense of greater divergence from the rest. It still makes him unwell at the thought. However, his father continued to speak with thoughtful confidence, 

"Don't be so down boy," he had said while sitting on Dipper's bed, smoking with the window open; watching as he was preparing his luggage for the trip to the city. 

"It's the life of a hunter, my time will eventually run out." 

He is mature enough not to get emotional over such a blunt statement. He understands the hunt itself. The adrenaline rush that comes from the chaos that is ensured with each waning fight. The deal made with chance when it came between the hunter and the degutting claws of an enraged monster. However, it is the mental rewards for doing such dangerous activities (the pleasure of being deemed almost heroic) that comes after each hunt; enticing one to continue. 

His father had let him out on multiple occasions to witness such things. Him and his companions, slaying monsters that only seemed possible in fiction. With that, he can accept the chance that his father may never see the rising sun. 

His sister, however, she'd be left to mourn with the falling snow of winter. Tainted with the emotional baggage of knowing their father will never return, leaving their mother a widow, and them, fatherless. 

He struggles with trying to find such emotional turmoil, having already been exposed to such disarray. 

Telling wives their husbands were sadly lost to the hunt. Trying to save children that had wandered too far into the woods, who just ended up as mangled corpses on the woodland floors. Even women who were mothers; whose untimely death was met with uncontrollable sobbing by their children and partners. 

It was all a part of a hunter's duty. 

Sometimes it did leave him wondering if there was any gain. Fragmented, the families would remain living with the pain of heartache. There was nothing after death, no tears left to shed; no string of emotion left raveled. All was lost in the passing of death. 

"He will do what he can," he simply states.  
A shadow overcasts the carriage, plunging them into a sleek coolness of the changing season. Her expression falls, brows furrow deeply with lines creasing her forehead. 

The possibility of having to care for two grieving women when he returns home does induce a sense of guilt, and the thought leaves a heavy weight upon his shoulders. He doesn't want to sugarcoat it too much. The least he can do is help by starting to push out any brooding thoughts. 

She brings a gloved hand to the corner of her eye, lashes fluttering as she wipes unfallen tears. There's not much he can do to comfort her. Perhaps he can offer his book as a small distraction. But knowing the contents only contained topics that discussed the biological effects of certain diseases and infections-- a book gifted by one of his father's friends who was once a scholar-- he knew it'd be of no interest to her. Their taste in literature differed greatly. It would just be meaningless. 

"I know." 

She speaks so softly, he pauses in thought, causing his shoulders to roll in an attempt to loosen some tension. He cannot look at her anymore. Instead his eyes train back to the window, glancing with heavy strain at the cobblestone floors and the ever growing buildings of the city.

***

They arrive with ease, the streets catering well for their carriage as it had followed along its bendy course without fail. It stops before a house that seemingly merges with the others around it. If it weren’t for it sitting on the corner of the street and their mother describing the specific design of the house, he surely would have walked by it. She had mentioned a gargoyle that would watch as they entered through the front door, a garden of flowers that decorated the side of the fence and the large lantern that hung outside the door (though, he had seen multiple of those). But as he looks up to where it should sit, the gargoyle’s growling face looks worn, having been chipped from something unknown. While the garden is now a dirt patch on the side of the path. The house clearly isn't as grand as their mansion back at their town, and it's foreign, eloquent exterior would be a sight to see if it weren't for the city holding such a trend amongst most it's architecture. 

Mabel gasps, and is quick to open the door before the driver can dismount from his perch. The tall, but hunched, man standing at the door (was he waiting there the entire time? Surely not) waves as Mabel practically jumps out. While Dipper stumbles, foot accidentally caught on the edges of the carriage. 

Once he recovers, he thanks the driver, grabbing their luggage as Mabel has already crossed over the small road, greeting their great uncle with unrestrained loudness. She's too overbearing with her social light. The weariness of the ride, followed by his undigest anxious person-- even if this is his family he is meeting-- is quick to pull his mood down. 

Gods, it'd be nice to lie down, even if for a moment. But alas, it would be unjust and too rude to simply wonder in, sniff out a bed, and lie until the next morning. Instead, he shuffles over, carrying both his and Mabel's luggage. What did she even pack? It's weight is heavier than most weaponry his father owns, and he can feel his shoulder strain to lift it above his hip. 

Glancing up, he can see Mabel has already entered the house. Her voice echoing from the halls, exclaiming how wonderful it is. Frowning, he struggles to meet the small stairway leading to the front door. 

Finally his great uncle comes down, easily lifting Mabel's bag as he barks out a light laugh. 

"You may have grown kid, but ya still got a lot more growin' to do." 

He tries to ignore the embarrassment that is quick to ignite from the comment, and instead grumbles, too tired to care much about his lack of formalities. 

Though Stan may look the part of a well-off man, he's choice in words does not approve of such upbringings. He's quickly cursing as Mabel's bag gets caught on the small table placed near the front door. His voice is riddled with age old smoking and possibly even liquor. 

Looking around, he feels a pang of a long lost memory telling him that the house feels smaller that it should. Age defines the walls as the paper is torn in areas with its colour dulling the hallways. The smell of cigar smoke lingers within the building. But as he walks to the wide area of the lounge, the open windows show there was at least an attempt to air it out. Still, the house is charmingly quaint; almost humble. Though, he knows that what is displayed before him does not amount to the wealth that runs within the family. It has clearly aged with the man who owns it. 

After a small tour of the place (of the first floor only since Stan was too lazy to go upstairs, claiming that there wasn't anything interesting), finally him and Mabel can settle down in their designated rooms. 

Lucky or not, his room is up the stairway. Another lounge with a well stocked liquor cabinet and fireplace greets him there before he notices the door to his room. 

Bland with its simplicity, it still offers comfort with its bed placed next to the window, overlooking the city. With it is also a bookshelf containing a limited supply, and a door to which he assumes leads to a washroom.  
Once unpacked, he eyes longingly at the bed, desperate for a moment's rest. However, a deep rooted teaching forces him to wonder back down to his host and sister. It'd be rude not to be socialising. 

Once quickly dressing down to his undershirt, not wanting to spend anymore time restricted in such formal attire (might as well take in the last few days of warming sunlight before they're forced into heavy winter wear), he descends back down stairs into the lounge. 

He can see Mabel has done the same.  
She's nonchalantly chatting with Stan, one hand holding a cup of tea, the other waving about with her words. The curtains drift beside them, framing them as the afternoon sun slowly begins to hide behind the city. 

"It's much less populated than the heart I presume? There's more statues here than people." 

Her fascination rings through her voice, and Dipper doesn't have to look at her face to see the awe decorating her. 

Both of them are looking out towards the limited view presented (thanks to the close-knitted housing). He begins to feel awkward standing there, simply listening as if he were a stranger. Even though he feels the exhaustion settling behind his eyes and a brewing of a yawn in his throat, he still walks into the lounge. He only has to take two more steps before Stan turns to look at him. 

"Still have feathered feet, eh boy?"  
The man looks amused, a half eased smile on display (even though he's talking to Mabel of all people). 

Dipper tries not to take Stan's words negatively, but once again, he quickly becomes embarrassed. It's not like he's trying to be quiet, he just is. 

His head stays downcasted, avoiding the room's eye contact as he shuffles over to the small, but gaudy red couch. Mabel looks pleased as he sits beside her. She offers a cup of tea or coffee, but he declines. He's anxiety is flaring with Stan’s gaze, a man he is still trying to learn to relax around, so it'd be best not to accidentally spill anything. 

"Father talked sometimes of this city. Though, Dipper would hold more knowledge than I." Mabel smiles towards him, immediately trying to pull him into the conversation. She knows that he'll most likely sit in silence. Least she has enough mercy to make it a topic of his own interest. 

Stan looks curiously over to him, seeing if he has any input or possible question. Dipper stumbles around for… For anything really. 

"Well, I-" 

He stutters, knowing that his first impression of being a functioning adult is long gone. He curses himself for having held onto this behaviour instead of forcing it out of himself when he was younger. Between reading and being bought out to hunt, there wasn't much casual talk, especially when he was the only child of the group. 

"This city… it's quite peculiar. However, Father never went into much depth." 

He's too hesitant to spill what information he knows, even with the slow boiling sensation in his gut, burning him to inquire about the city. His father mentioned Gravity Falls every so often, most times when drunk, but each one left him yearning to know more. Despite his curiosity, it was the disturbing undertones that kept him away. Still, he's not going to question it now. Not with Mabel around. It was decided between him and his father that they were to keep her away from any hunter dealings. Perhaps tonight, he and Stan… If he's not too intimidated, will be able to talk and he’ll get a hold of something important. 

His father's final words ring around in his head, 

"Leave, son, trust my word. The moon will rise and fall tonight, as it always does, so no need to worry too much." 

There's something in the air… something that he is unable to feel… Unable to see-- he’s sure of it. Stan, though a retired hunter, may hold the answers he's looking for. It's a sense, he assumes, only experienced hunters can understand. Maybe he'll be able to gain some insight. 

"Well, there ain't much," Stan grumbles, leaning back in his seat, the steam from his cup slowly ascending towards the ceiling. His eyes are directed towards the window, expression hard to read, but Dipper can tell there's _something_ lurking in his head. 

"Nothin' you two kids should be worrin' 'bout anyway," he laughs a little, turning to look at them again. "If you'd prefer, I can give ya a small tour before the sun's too low beyond the horizon." 

Mabel immediately gasps, her cup almost spilling its content onto Dipper's lap as her hand jerks. 

He's just sat down and already the others wanted to move around. He tries not to groan as his exhaustion is, once again, reminded of. While it would be pleasant to explore before nightfall, he'd be able to experience it all tomorrow, once the hunt was over.

His gut rolls, a flicker of nausea weaving its way into his stomach. He doesn't want to think about it too much. The sun can only sit in the sky for so long, and with each rising shadow, the unknown surrounding this night’s hunt grows in size, and with it, his anxiety. 

"Oh yes! Before nightfall, you must show us around!" Mabel says, her excitement flowing from her mouth, eyes alight with radiance. Dipper somewhat envies her. All that energy, and not even a trickle is left for him to feed off. Only her positive spirit pushing him into the dirt. He can feel the weight under his eyes as she turns to speak to him. 

"You must join, it'll be absolutely wonderful! Before such a dreary night, we must take in what we can," she exclaims, standing up suddenly. She quickly leans over and puts down her cup on the table and then stands opposite him. She reaches her arms out, gloveless hands making grabbing motions. 

Rolling his eyes, he grips them and is heaved out of the chair. 

Glancing behind her involuntary, he sees Stan is packing up the tea set. He's somewhat distracted by the careful action performed by such a brute of a man. It causes him to stumble with his words as his eyes flicker back and forth between Mabel's intense stare and Stan now retreating to the kitchen. 

"I, ugh…" Dipper clears his throat, "I'm quite tired from today's trip, surely we can-" 

He's cut off by Mabel's exaggerated sigh. 

"Surely you're itching to go out and explore," she says, her voice laced with false sweetness. It's stale. He's not impressed. Even with his lack of response, and neutral expression, she is not deterred. 

"There's sure to be a wide selection of gentlemen around," she whispers, as if trying to keep it from Stan. He frowns slightly. It's always about men with her. But the glint in her eye, and the hand curved to her mouth-- a childish gesture-- makes him think that there was more to her comment than he first thought. He doesn't think about it too much as she giggles. 

"I also assure you brother," the word brother comes out poking; a joking manner that breaks his frown a little. "There is to be piles of books for your leisure. Mother did tell that this city is rich, after all. Imagine the library; it would contain more than you've ever seen." 

It's tempting, really. The amount of knowledge and history contained in such a grand city would most likely make his head explode. Yet, his body constraints him. A small pang of an oncoming headache in the back of his head solidifies his answer. 

While he rests, he should drink more water. 

"After the hunt, I'll join. I wish for rest, Mabel," he speaks with a begging softness, not needing her agreement, but giving her a chance to understand. She's immediately disappointed, expression falling quickly. There's a distant look in her eyes and his heart aches. He knows she's trying to find some form of joy between now and the inevitable night soon to fall upon them. But it's only a night… A moment… Surely it's only the intrusive thinking that's fueling their anxiety. There's nothing too serious… Right? 

"trust my word" 

The echo of it swirls within his mind. He can't help but feel the opposite. 

***  
Stan and Mabel leave not too long after. She's still upset that he's staying behind, but allows it without too much commotion. Just some whining to Stan who simply shrugged it off. 

After waving goodbye, Dipper ended up walking into the kitchen. There he watches the sun as it lingers above the peaks of the city. He indirectly looks, lest he accidentally blind himself. 

There's distant laughter and chatter from the people in the street, but nothing he can make out. The city still bustles with life before the fall of dusk, and he wonders if there is any fear within the town at all. Maybe it was a wise choice to leave for the night. It seems the hunters in the city perform their jobs so well, that the town desires to continue its lively leisures, even as the sun threatens to fall beneath their feet. Nevertheless, with the relaxed air, his anxiety eases and the tension he was holding onto releases.

It won't be long before Stan and Mabel return. He knows Stan will want them cooped up like chickens before the orange seeps into the skies. Incense will also have to be lit, and only Stan knows where it is stored. Maybe even a few locks on the front door; a precaution he's only seen paranoid town folk do. 

Who's he kidding, with the way Stan is built, the man could probably punch a beast in the face. 

He continues to watch the city for a while longer before he looks away to rub his forehead with a deep groan. Tiredness pokes at his head again, so he finally grabs a cup from the bench (one Stan probably left to dry) and proceeds to fill it with water. 

Trying not to spill it, he carefully walks and ascends the stairs to his room. A drop or two later (curse having to sneeze), he makes it without having accidentally broken anything. A relief he celebrates as he places the cup onto his bedside table. 

Lying down on the bed he breathes out heavily. His eyes strain and he brings up a hand to rub them. 

Why is he so tired? 

His head won't stop throbbing (when did that even start?), so he decides to sit back up, and reaches for his cup. 

It's sweet on his tongue as the tea easily glides down his throat. The headache eases along with his restlessness, soothing him into a quiet lull.

Cured from his body's discomfort, he ends up looking out the window; bathing in the sun as it shines through his window. 

Dust circulates the air, unseen to the eye as he fixates on the city once again. Completely charmed, he lazily glances about the view presented before him.  
Gravity Falls overwhelms the land it sits upon, not an ounce of it is left untouched by its people. It rises and falls suddenly in places as steeples stretch high with their peaks, spreading out to the furthest reaches of his sight. A clock tower reins over the lot with its face noticeable even from where he sits. Smoke plumes from some rooftops, weaving between the condensed buildings before breaking free in a long trail of a flowing white cloud, and disappearing into the air. 

Slowly his eyes trail upwards towards the sun.

Transfixed, he watches. It sits perfectly aline with the city, its yellow face bold and large, seemingly closer than it should be. His eyes don't need to squint as he stares unblinking into its golden rays. He is unable to turn from its alluring glow. 

A blanket of heat cradles him, holding him in an embrace that instills a comforting calmness into his entire self-- as if all his problems have suddenly been solved, all fears vanquished, and now, he can finally rest. 

His eyes flutter with the sensation and he almost forgets about the hot cup of tea in his hand.  
It's the steam that reminds him. 

Curling and heating his face, softly brushing against his cheeks. It wakes him from the trance as he turns his head down to focus on the swirl of the liquid inside. 

His head can't comprehend a full thought; laxed mind a slow moving current, free of burden. So instead, he accepts what he is feeling is something from his tiredness and possible need to drink more fluids. 

Taking another sip, he closes his eyes and feels the delicate water glide across his tongue, a mindless task to fill in the blankness that flows through him. 

It's bland. 

Swallowing, he retches, surprised. Disgusted, he tries not to gag too much. Bringing up a fist, he proceeds to cough into it, cringing at the lack of flavour. 

Over his coughing fit there's a loud chime that fills the air. 

A church bell rings in the distance. 

A sudden onset of nausea makes him sway as his sight blends between blurry and clear. Blinking, he tries to stop it. The hand that was a fist now acts as a support to hold up his head. There's a ringing in his ear that makes him hiss out in pain, causing him to bend over himself. Tears well up as he shakes from the intensity. 

It stops. 

Breathing heavily with glistening eyes, he is left to only stare down aimlessly into his cup. His brain is in a form of shock at the sudden disappearance of the onslaught of almost supernatural pain. There's not a slither of it remaining, only a chilling silence that haunts the room. 

Not sure what to do with himself, he almost heaves into the small cup in his lap, the phantom feeling lingering in his stomach. But he is confused at the thick liquid circling inside. 

A deep red swirls around and around and around. 

Blood. 

The smell of rotten flesh, a feverish scent, filled with the decay of life and lavished with a grotesque concoction of a deathly ailment. It fills his nose and infects his lungs. 

All he can taste is the blood. 

His breath gets caught in his throat. 

Panicked, he throws the cup to the ground. It's loud when it smashes against the floorboards, scattering porcelain and blood everywhere. Frozen in horror, he watches as the blood doesn't stop flowing from where the cup hit the floor. It bubbles up as sickly, wet sounds fill the room. 

Getting to his knees, he struggles to move backwards as his legs dip too far into the mattress, restricting him. He panics more with his pounding heart, the intensity of it making it almost burst from his chest.

Turning his body to reach for the window with shaking hands, he doesn't look away at the growing blood pool below his bed, scared if we were to do so, he'd suddenly be swallowed by it. So he misses, desperation causing him to aimlessly swat his hand about to try and find contact with the wooden frame. 

After a few more failed attempts, his need for escape yells at him, making him automatically dart his eyes to the open window. He almost cries out in alarm. Instead, his throat tightens and a painful gasp is elicited at the sight of a now darkening city.

Beholding a fierce red, it conquers the streets with a dampening light, and surrenders the sun into its final flame.  
Burnt out, the sun crumples into a deathly ash; a candle's flame now extinguished.  
A blood moon descends; a heavenly death bestowing itself down upon the city.

He cannot not look away. 

Gasping, he fumbles backwards, away from the window in pure instinctual terror. Eventually meeting the end of the bed where his feet stumble onto the floor. 

Mind racing with primal panic, his movements are slow as he is hypnotized by the moon filling the sky. He steps across the broken cup, not noticing the way it cuts deep into his flesh; spilling his own blood and mixing it into the clotting one on the wooden floor. 

It sticks to his feet.  
He cannot move.

Harrowing sounds of howls and screams echo from the beyond; filling the room with a chorus of cries of the living's demise. He cannot feel himself nor hear his own thoughts anymore. The moon is drawing him in with its beautifully, sinister gaze; luring him into its deadly hold. It consumes him and ingests his own mind. 

There’s an unseeable presence-- he can feel it move around the room-- a heavy weight pushing against his senses. It stems from the moon; a lethal toxin invading the air. 

It pushes against his shoulders. He falls to his knees. He still can't look away. 

The blood begins to climb up his thighs, seeping into the pores of his skin, contaminating his system. It seeks entry through the wounds at his feet; wiggling inside like worms. 

It eats at his body, climbing and climbing, leaving no skin unclaimed. 

It burns him, slipping into the depths of his own body, reaching further than what his own mind can comprehend. 

He wants to scream, to cry for help, to try and swipe away the crawling blood, _but he cannot move_. 

Breathing picking up with his rapid heart,  
the blood begins to pull him under as the presence grows. 

His knees fallout under him and he's suddenly suspended from his waist, feeling nothing under his feet. His arms jolt out to grab the blood clotting on the floor before him, but it squishes under his nails, the blood leaking under and turning them black. 

Its grip tightens as it creeps further upwards. 

Suddenly he's gasping for any air as the blood climbs up his throat, squeezing. The smell, pestilent in nature with cruel intent, makes him mad. No thought coherent, no consciousness left untouched. 

Everything is covered with the blood. 

The last of the light burns bright from the red hue of the moon. Its reflection, large and round, bleeds deep into his eyes as its blood gargles and spills from his lips, pouring as tears. 

He is drowned by the blood. 

Now submerged, he feels it tear into the pits of his stomach; invading painfully into his body. There is nothing that it doesn't take, nothing it doesn't eat. 

Suspended in the dark waters, he twists and turns, grasping at his neck to pull at the clot that threatens to slice deeply into his throat. Bubbles form as he screams and wails in pain. There he will disappear, body deformed and broken within the black waters of the unknown. 

He feels a sudden beat-- a pulsation in his stomach; a sensation of it filling his insides with its own. There is nothing of himself left.

Then there is heat. A slow build up light that colours the water red. It expands with each pulse, a brightening white that blinds his vision, then disappears, bringing back the dark depths. 

All is quiet. 

He stops moving. The blood's hold almost vanishes, only the feeling of its chunks settling and floating around inside of him remain. It's tight grip now only hovering around him. 

He cannot see, nor can he hear the sounds of the blood festering in his head. 

He is warm. 

Curling inward automatically, he allows his body to relax as he is left floating alone with the light slowly fading and reigniting. It gets bigger with each pulse and he lets its warmth send him to sleep. 

It bursts. 

He breathes in a hungry gasp of air as he is blinded by intense light. 

There is nothing, yet he slides out with a river of thinning blood. 

He's cold. So very cold. 

Dipper wakes with a start, jolting up right, and catching the cry in his throat. His heart pounds almost painfully in his chest as he tries to regain his breathing. Quickly looking around and not seeing any immediate threat, he eases slightly. 

There's dried tears in his eyes. He rubs them away as he glances over to see the cup, whole, and still sitting on the bedside table untouched. Still breathing heavily, he leans over and picks it up, unable to make a coherent thought. He almost drops it, hands slippery from sweat and shaking from adrenaline. 

It's water. 

A nightmare-- it was all just a nightmare. 

A nightmare best left forgotten. 

Leaning back against the headboard, the effects of the nightmare begin to drain as he looks towards the window, unsure what to do with himself. 

Clouds drift through the sky.  
His heart rate begins to slow down. 

Swallowing the stale saliva in his mouth with the water, his eyes take in the setting sun.

A peaceful array of pink and oranges filter through the sky. 

The hunt is about to begin.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed the first chapter!


End file.
